


Suspicious Sandwiches

by kayliemalinza



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Mild Gore, Pre-Canon, Surveillance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:15:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluffy bit of pre-canon surveillance. Neal Caffrey's the bad guy but he isn't, you know, a <i>bad guy</i>. Written before Season 3 finished airing.</p><p>Teaser:<br/>"I know, he's a regular goody two-shoes," Simmons says. Today they surveilled Caffrey doing his girlfriend's laundry. Yesterday he gave sales advice to a couple of Girl Scouts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suspicious Sandwiches

It's cute when he sends the sandwiches. It's a little less cute that Caffrey knows Jones takes his turkey with add mustard, no mayo and Peter gets corned beef whenever he has the chance, except at this particular deli, which does something special with their grilled chicken. Still, that didn't take any particular genius or a lot of stalking. The counter girl had their orders memorized after the second week of surveillance and Peter figures a fifty dollar bill is pretty persuasive to someone doing a 40-hour work week on minimum wage. Caffrey's smile would do the trick, too, considering all the assholes Peter's seen in line.

"He must be trying to distract us," Peter said, after the delivery boy finished goggling at the insides of the van and scuttled off. 

"Obviously he knows we're sitting on him," Simmons says. "He's not going to try anything."

"You think we should leave? Conserve resources?" Peter asks her. 

"That'd be the reasonable bureaucratic response," says Simmons, her voice about as deadpan as the deli girl's. She nudges Jones with the toe of her boot to stop him from opening the sandwich wrapper. "It could be poisoned." 

"Caffrey isn't violent," Peter says. He's had to remind Simmons of that a lot. She's a recent transfer from violent crimes and still spooky three weeks in, expecting to flip over a mortgage contract and find a photo of someone's intestines throwing crimped-edged shadows from the camera flash. 

"I know, he's a regular goody two-shoes," Simmons says. Today they surveilled Caffrey doing his girlfriend's laundry. Yesterday he gave sales advice to a couple of Girl Scouts. 

("Grown-ups love it when kids are missing teeth," they heard over the headphones. "Use that to your advantage."

"The girl could be a courier," Simmons said. Peter didn't have an argument against that until Jones suggested they confiscate all the boxes of Thin Mints to search them. Then, the only executive decision Peter had to make was to say "Settle down, kids" when Simmons' empty coffee cup hit Jones square on the back of the head.

"Keep Simmons partnered with Jones," Hughes said during their closed-door briefing this morning. "I like what I'm seeing there.")

Simmons spins a quarter-turn in her chair and feigns sudden revelation: "Or maybe Caffrey's an alien."

"Oh, he's human," Peter says. "He's gonna slip up one day. And then we'll nail him."

Jones nods, but Simmons gives Peter a side-eye like he's pissed about a raccoon tipping over the garbage. She does that a lot. Peter hasn't called her on it yet; it's reasonably short of insubordination, and Hughes told him to baby her. They're waiting for her world-view to flip right-side-up again and hoping she doesn't leave the Bureau in the meantime.

Peter gets sandwiches. Simmons' perp sent her a finger. 

"Maybe I should eat mine first," says Jones, looking at his sandwich like the sandwich should consider taking out a restraining order. "If I'm not dead in 15 minutes, then you know it's safe."

"He could be targeting just one of us," Simmons says, and looks at Peter. 

"I could eat Peter's sandwich," says Jones.

"Hands off," Peter answers, and takes the sandwich lovingly into his hands. The chicken is brown and crackly on the underside, just how he likes it.

Simmons takes the headphones and lets her panini go cold. "We're not getting any good intel," she says an hour later, quietly enough that Peter can pretend he doesn't hear it over the sound of his own chewing. "And he's got the psychological advantage."

Peter turns that over in his brain, prods at it, takes it home with him. She isn't wrong.


End file.
